


The Talking Cure

by Chianine



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chianine/pseuds/Chianine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has been at home with Steve for almost a year now. All things considered, he's adjusted pretty well to his new life. Some days he goes to the movies, meets up with Steve's friends, smiles at strangers, tells jokes... sometimes he even laughs. Every one of these hopeful days, though, is matched by a day of gloomy silence and taciturn withdrawal. Steve knows there are still things that haunt his best friend, even if Bucky doesn't want to admit it. He also knows that Bucky may need more than Steve's friendship and devotion to help him along the road to recovery.</p>
<p>After some little persuasion, Bucky agrees to give the talking cure a chance. But, <i>because trash is forever, his therapist is a scumbag. Specifically, the kind of scumbag who's drawn to Bucky's vulnerability and sexual trauma. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On Saturday afternoons, Steve liked to go to Sam's group therapy sessions. Bucky, feeling he had enough of his own nightmares to contend with, never felt much like listening to strangers share theirs.

That didn't stop Steve from inviting him every single time he went, or from spending an hour after he returned talking about how great the damn things were. You didn't have to be a mind reader to see how badly Steve wanted Bucky to go with him. 

“Not everyone feels comfortable in a group setting, I know,” Steve granted, slapping a sandwich together in the kitchen and chomping into it. “For some people it's easier to talk in a more private, one-on-one situation. That might be the perfect thing for you, you know?”

At least he wasn't beating around the bush this time - Bucky had to give him that. “But I don't need to talk to anyone. I'm fine,” he reminded Steve.

“ _Fine?!_ ” Steve almost choked on his own enthusiasm, which was being smothered by bologna and white bread. “You're more than fine, Bucky, you're an inspiration!” Steve coughed. “That's why Sam and I want you to come down and speak at one of the sessions. You're a survivor with an incredible story. You could give people a lot of hope.”

Bucky stared back at Steve, incredulous. From his perspective, the best thing he could do for this world was to keep the horrors of his past to himself. If his stories could inspire anything, hope wasn't it. “No.”

Steve frowned. “Well, will you at least think about maybe talking to Sam? It doesn't have to be a traditional sort of thing. Maybe you guys can go out for beers or something...”

Steve didn't push this hard unless he really wanted Bucky to try something. Instead of flat-out refusing, Bucky hesitated, thinking of a compromise that wouldn't be as repugnant as detailing and dissecting his agony over beers at Hooter's. “I'm not talking to Sam,” Bucky asserted, then, before Steve's open mouth could bring up Natasha, he added, “or any of your other friends.”

Steve's frown deepened and he looked sideways at Bucky. “Why not?”

“Just...” Bucky couldn't believe he had to explain therapy to therapy's biggest fan. “... it's a little awkward, you know? Most people go to therapy so they can complain about their life to someone who's not _in_ their life. I can't complain about Sam if Sam's my therapist!” 

Steve scratched his head. “Yeah, I guess an outsider's perspective can be beneficial...” 

“No shit.”

Steve dropped the topic without asking why Bucky would need to complain about Sam. In truth, outside of getting Steve so excited about therapy, Bucky really didn't have any problem with Sam. _Maybe if get myself a therapist,_ he thought, _they'll help me come up with something._

 

At first, Bucky had no intention of seeing a therapist at all. He could choose a slot of time every week – say, Wednesdays at two – and spend a set amount of time wandering around the mall or some other place he was sure not to run into Steve or anyone he else knew. From listening to him blather about his beloved group sessions, Bucky was confident he knew enough psychotherapy jargon to fabricate stories and updates for Steve on his “progress.” 

Long-term deceptions are bitches, though, and it's almost inevitable that the deceived gets wise to it eventually. Steve being Steve, the discovery would be devastating. Bucky would feel like shit, and since the biggest and most obvious question would be _why_ , the entire misadventure would only result in Steve having even more reason to think Bucky was hiding something. So, on to plan B – actually just going to a fucking therapist. 

Nothing about this plan appealed to Bucky besides the convenience of not having to lie to Steve. The first thing he had to do was find a therapist. He really had no idea what he wanted in one beyond them not being connected to Steve in any way. In this regard, he had declined both Steve and Sam when they offered to help him search for an appropriate purveyor of bullshit, even though they insisted that it was tricky to ''find the right person to fit your needs.” Thing was, he and they had very different ideas of what his needs were. 

Frankly, Bucky was insulted by their concern. He had survived the most advanced methods of brainwashing and mind control the world had ever seen. Nobody could come close to doing what Pierce and Zola had done to him. Worrying that the wrong shrink might fuck him up was like worrying that kids might break a window in a condemned house. His soul was rent and irreparable. Letting some inept dipshit scatter the pieces around was fine if it kept Steve happy.

Like everything else in the twenty-first century, Bucky's mission to find a harmless, incompetent, and hopefully inexpensive therapist started with the internet. He found a mental health directory and began skimming a list of physicians that were compatible with his insurance, noting their specializations: eating disorders, anxieties, depression, anger management... every kind of psychic dysfunction was represented. He had only been at it a few minutes when a name caught his attention. Bucky read through the doctor's summary of expertise a few times and chuckled. For the first time, Bucky wondered if this therapy thing might actually turn out to be _fun._

 

Sam said he went to Hooter's for the chicken wings but Bucky figured it was probably tits. Steve said he went to Hooter's for the chicken wings and he was telling the truth. Bucky didn't give a shit about tits or chicken wings but he was there because he needed approval for his new therapist.

Sam and Steve were working their way through a huge plate of wings, Sam's eyes wandering the room while Steve's stayed trained on the chicken. When he remembered the purpose of the social gathering Sam asked, “So, Steve says you might have found someone?”

Such a vague question might be construed a couple of different ways, but no one at that table would mistake Bucky for the dating type. Not now, anyway.

Bucky pushed his phone forward and tapped it on so Sam could read the blurb without getting sauce all over it. Taking the hint, Sam reached for a napkin but seemed distracted as he read. 

“What do you think?” Bucky asked.

Instead of answering, Sam reread the short paragraph out loud. “Jim Bolton, PhD, MC, LPC. Experienced counselor specializing in memory and dissociative disorders - amnesia, identity, misidentification, delusional, false memory, as well as comorbid personality disorders of the paranoid, emotional, and anxious types. Treatments available: abreaction, hypnosis, transcranial magnetic stimulation, ECT referral. Outpatients welcome.”

His fingers now clean, Sam fidgeted with his wrist watch and cleared his throat. “These diagnoses... well, let me ask you this – when you saw this ad, what attracted you to it?”

“Memory disorders,” Bucky answered, then seeing that Sam did not seem satisfied, added, “amnesia, anxiety. These things seem relevant to me.”

“Okay...” Sam rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his nose. His body language was betraying how uncomfortable he felt talking about this.

_He wants to find a tasteful way to tell you that this is a doctor for lunatics,_ Bucky reflected. _You must either convince him that you are in fact a lunatic, or that you are too naïve to understand what one is._

“... I know as well as Steve does that your memory has been fucked with pretty hard,” Sam said, his blunt lead-in earning him a momentary glare from Steve, “but what's important is that _you_ know that. You know that things have been added and taken away from you, and you know it's all artificial - by that I mean it's been done purposefully, and with technology and methods that we don't fully understand yet.” Sam paused and took a sip of his water. “Do you know which memories are real and which aren't?”

Bucky swallowed. “Sometimes.”

“But you want to know, right?”

Bucky eyes drifted down to the table.

“Look, most memory disturbances are caused by trauma,” Sam continued. “Any good doctor will ask their patient why they want to go digging around in a traumatized memory before getting started. So that's what I'm asking you - what do you want to find out about your memory and why do you think it will make you any happier? What if you unearth something painful?”

In the brief pause that followed Sam's questions, Bucky wondered if he was actually expected to answer. He kept his eyes locked on the table and waited for Sam to keep going.

“I know you have to do what feels right for you,” Sam said, “but I personally think it would be more valuable for you to learn how to cope with the past and build on it than to dig into it and disturb its foundations.”

Bucky sighed deeply, hoping it seemed born out of consideration rather than exasperation. Then he looked up from the table and gave Steve and Sam a tight-lipped smile. “I've already made the appointment,” he confessed.

“Oh,” Sam said, shrugging, “well what are you asking me for?” He grabbed another chicken wing and began looking around the room again. “Have you seen our waitress?” he asked no one in particular.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky was looking forward to his Monday morning appointment. He walked to the office with a spring in his step, envisioning how the entire thing would play out. He would be cheeky and sharp, tough and impenetrable. In his imagination, Bolton was a heavy asthmatic in loafers and horn-rimmed glasses, tongue-tied and overwhelmed by Bucky's sass. _This should be a good time,_ he thought.

His mood changed in Dr. Bolton's waiting room. A few feet away from him, a young man was picking at his raw, bleeding fingertips while a high squeal emitted from the back of his throat. It was disturbing. As he watched, Bucky heard a voice in his head, a woman's. _Don't stare,_ it said, that boy is somebody's son, maybe somebody's brother. How would you feel if some fool was staring slack-jawed at your sister like that? He felt an odd stinging sensation on his nose and rubbed it. That was his mother's voice, he realized, speaking to him from another returned memory. Steve said that he'd seen her flick the tip of his nose plenty, and that he'd deserved it every time. Heeding the voice, he turned his head away. He tried to look distracted by his phone, but the pretending became impossible when the secretary started telling the kid to keep his band-aids on because he was getting blood all over the place. Bucky squirmed. _I made a mistake,_ he thought. _I don't belong here. Please, please tell me I don't belong here._

It was two minutes past his appointment and he was beginning to lose his nerve as well as his sense of adventure. The secretary disappeared for less than a minute, leaving him alone with Bloody Fingers. The squealing got louder until she returned and pointed at the door next to her little window.

“Five minutes,” she warned the kid sternly.

Bloody Fingers jumped out of his seat and ran through the door, slamming it behind him.

“Dr. Bolton will be with you shortly," the secretary promised. "It's just... sometimes he needs a minute. Just some reassurance, you know?"

Bucky smiled as if he had any fucking idea what she was talking about.

He was surprised when his name was called a few minutes later. He hadn't seen Bloody Fingers leave and stepped into the office expecting to find him there. The room was beige, functional, and forgettable. Similarly, the doctor seemed neither interesting nor offensive. No loafers, no horn-rimmed glasses. Just a middle-aged man, lean and fit, dressed to be decent but not to impress. No Bloody Fingers, though.

“Jim,” the man said, his hand extended.

Bucky took it and absorbed the firm shake. “James,” he replied, waiting for a corny joke about their names. But there wasn't one. Bolton pointed to one of two matching chairs unceremoniously and seated himself in the other. 

The doctor began marking on a clipboard he had in his lap while Bucky took his time settling into the chair. A few silent moments passed, and just as things were bordering on uncomfortable, Dr. Jim looked up. “Did you want me to begin?” he asked.

Bucky was still shifting around in his seat. “Sure.”

“Okay, what brings you here today?” Jim asked, then immediately went back to his clipboard.

The doctor's disinterest was more obnoxious than any of the cloying or preening Bucky had been expecting. “Actually,” Bucky answered with a shrug, “I'm only really here for the signed receipt I get from your secretary when I leave.”

Bolton stopped writing and faced him again with a wry smile. “I don't have a secretary. You may be referring to Alice, the receptionist you met this morning. I'm sure she'd be happy to oblige your request now if you'd rather be on your way?”

Bucky voice cracked when he attempted an easy-going laugh. He was losing this game before it even started. “No...” he said, “I don't really have to be anywhere, and besides -”

“You already paid for this hour, so you might as well get your money's worth, right?”

_This guy's good._ “Well, yeah. Exactly,” Bucky said, trying not to seem impressed. _Am I really that easy to read, or does everyone walk into this office thinking they're hot shit?_ Either way, it was humbling.

Bolton nodded and warmed his crooked smile. “Then I'll repeat the question – what brings you here? Besides receipts, which get mailed to your house, by the way."

Bucky's eyes wandered around the room, as if he would find the answer hiding on one of the shelves. Finally he threw his hands up. “I don't really know,” he admitted.

“Well, Mr. Barnes,” Bolton's grin twisted sardonically again, “since I received no medical history, I'm afraid I don't know, either. Therefore, it's going to be you that has to open this discussion.”

Bucky covered his face and knocked his knees together a few times. He didn't think it was fair getting hassled for not handing over a medical history that did not officially exist. His unofficial medical history was only half the reason he was sitting there, anyway. “Why am I here? I guess I'm here because my friend wants me to be.”

“And this is the friend who needs receipts as proof of attendance?”

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“Well, you wouldn't need receipts to prove to yourself that you were here, would you?”

“Good point.”

“Can I ask – what happens if you cannot prove that you've been here today? Will there be negative consequences? Punishments?”

“No!” Bucky balked at the suggestion that Steve would punish him. “Nothing will happen to me, it's just, you know, he wants me to go. For my own good. It's not like I'm going to get kicked out or anything.” Bucky thought of mentioning that Steve actually didn't need receipts - it had just been a smart-ass thing he had thought of saying on the way over - but Bolton spoke first.

“Kicked out? So you live with this friend...”

“Yeah, we're -” 

Bolton had been writing all during their conversation, but now Bucky noticed his hand moving in hurried strokes. A sort of panic seized him. “We're _friends._ We live together as _friends._ Hey, what are you writing?” Bucky leaned forward to look.

Bolton stopped. “Notes. For later reference.”

“Notes about what? About me?”

“Well it would hardly be fitting if I were working on my novel right now, don't you think?”

Bucky put out his left hand. “Let's see 'em.”

Bolton rolled his eyes and handed them over. It was chicken scratch, and the few words that were legible weren't even words at all. 

“What is this horseshit?” Bucky demanded. 

Bolton crossed his arms. “Shorthand.”

Bucky wasn't going to ask for a translation. He handed the clipboard back and muttered, “Suppose I should be glad you're paying attention.”

“Exactly the point I was going to make,” Bolton said. “Now, this friend that you're living with -”

“Steve is my friend, that's _it._ ”

“Yes, we've established that. Do you want to remind me one more time, or shall we move on?” When Bucky didn't respond, Bolton continued. “So, this friend, _Steve_...”

Bucky hadn't realized that he'd said Steve's name. He looked up at the sound of it, and caught Bolton eying him like a hawk. He felt naked.

“... he wants you to see me presumably because he cares about you and hopes I can help you -”

“Well, actually he didn't want me to see _you._ He wanted me to see his friend Sam.”

“And his friend Sam is a therapist?”

“Yeah, sorta. He's like a counselor. He counsels veterans, and you know, does group sessions and whatnot...”

“But you don't want to see him?”

“No, it seemed funny with him being Steve's friend and all -”

“I should say so.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Well, it's highly irregular for a person to see a therapist they are already personally acquainted with, and not at all recommended. Did this _Sam_ also encourage you to have him as your therapist?”

Bucky thought about it. Only Steve had explicitly asked him to see Sam, but that might have just been Sam talking out of Steve's mouth. Also, after the punishment question, Bucky felt like he had to protect Steve from Bolton's judgment. “Yeah, he did. In fact, when I told him I was going to see you, he questioned me.”

“He questioned you?”

“Yeah. Wanted to know why I had picked you and told me that I should talk to someone who knows me and what I've been through. He thought you were a doctor for loonies that would only make me worse.” _Maybe that was a little more embellishment than necessary,_ Bucky thought, letting his foot worry the leg of his chair. He felt a little ashamed. A _little._

“Worse than what?”

“Worse than I am now, I guess.”

“What would you say is wrong with you? What would your _friends_ say is wrong with you?”

Bucky opened his mouth and then paused. From the way he had worded his questions, Bucky could see that the doctor had already gathered that there were indeed two different answers. Bucky straightened in his chair, feeling like he was on a witness stand. “Steve – and Sam, too – they just think I don't get out enough, I guess. They want me me to meet a girl and be more active and, I don't know... happy. Like them – pleased as punch just to wake up in the fucking morning -” Bucky checked himself. “Excuse my french.”

Bolton made a blasé hand gesture and kept on scribbling.

“Me, I just want to get my memory straightened out. That's why I came here, to you. Thing said you specialize in memory.”

“You want to straighten out your memory - you think it's tangled?”

“I _know_ it is,” Bucky smirked. “It's fucked.”

“Fucked from all that you've been through?”

Bucky was taken aback by the _fuck_ as well as the telepathy. “How do you know what I've been through?”

“A minute ago you said -”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky rubbed his eyes. “I was – I'm a vet. I was held captive for... let' just say a long, long time, and they had their fun with me. Experiments. Fucked up my memory.”

Now it was Bolton's turn to fidget and shift around in his seat. At least he was finally showing some interest. “Who is it you believe fucked your memory?” he asked, laying his hand down over the clipboard.

“The -” Bucky stopped himself. The details of Hydra's Winter Soldier program hadn't been publicly released. When Stark had used the term 'media circus' to describe what such a release would be like, Steve had made it clear that Bucky's privacy would be protected _or else_. Considering the fate of Hydra and Shield, no one wanted to find out what _or else_ was. Bucky was well aware of doctor-patient privilege, but he still hadn't decided if Bolton was going to be _the one,_ so...

Bolton, obviously fascinated and impatient, rephrased the question. “Can you tell me whether or not the culprits were terrestrial?” 

“Whether the culprits were _what_?”

Bolton gestured to the space around him. “Of this world.”

When Bucky finally understood what he was being asked, he couldn't believe it. “I said I was a vet, not a fucking alien abductee,” he spat.

Bolton shrugged.

“The identity of my captors is classified information,” Bucky gruffly explained. “When and _if_ we sign a confidentiality agreement, I'll consider discussing them with you.”

Bolton nodded politely. “Of course,” he said, “my apologies.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bucky mumbled, checking the time on his phone.

Reading his body language, Bolton clapped his arm rest and said, “Yes, it is about that time, isn't it? We'll get into all that later, if, of course, you decide that there should be a later...”

Bucky stared back.

“Of course you should be reimbursed for the time you lost this morning due to my other patient's crisis; and you're graciousness about it, I must say, was very much appreciated.”

_Bloody Fingers!_ The memory of him instantly snapped Bucky out of his offended funk. “Yeah, what happened to that kid? What the hell is his problem anyway?”

“I'm sure you realize that I can't discuss -”

“Where did he go? What, did you stuff him in a closet?” 

Bolton was clearly peeved. “I do not stuff my patients in closets. I send them on their way through the exit,” he said, pointing at a door on the other side of the room.

Bucky could see that this was his invitation to blow. He stood up. “So... next Monday?”

“Why don't you take a few days to decide what you want, and return on Thursday evening, say, seven. Yours will be my last appointment, and I can spare you some extra time to make up what you have sacrificed today.”

Bucky started moving towards the door. “Seriously, what was that kid's problem?”

“I _can't_ tell you that.”

“What, does he just bite on them until -”

“Mr. Barnes, I have another appointment.” Bolton opened the door and held out his hand exactly as before. “Until Thursday.”

Bucky took the hand and walked through the door which was quickly closed behind him. He found himself in a tiny room that could barely contain the chair and table it held. On the table was a dusty plastic plant and a box of tissues.

_So you do stuff your patients in closets._ Bucky laughed and walked through another door less than a step away.


End file.
